


Leap of Faith

by Llama1412



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Coming Untouched, Face-Fucking, Fantastic Racism, Getting Together, Imprisonment, Interrogation, M/M, Magic, POV Alternating, Pain, Politics, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Psychological Torture, Torture, Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28018686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: When Roche changes the rules of engagement in a skirmish with the Scoia'tael, Iorveth ends up captured.
Relationships: Foltest & Vernon Roche, Iorveth & Saskia, Iorveth & Scoia'tael (The Witcher), Iorveth & Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 21
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to go ahead and post this as chapters rather than as a one-shot. I've got a full plan for the story, but only 2 chapters finished (and they're short). So uh, hope you like bite-size chapters?
> 
> This started because I made a [dumb meme](https://bard-llama.tumblr.com/post/636912008067006464/i-made-another-dumb-meme-lol-i-noticed-that-the) and wanted to come up with a way to make it happen. But then I thought, what if it was pre-relationship? And they ran away together anyway? So then I had to make it happen.

Iorveth wasn’t wholly sure how he’d ended up in the dungeons of Vizima, but he was 100% positive that it was Vernon Roche’s fault.

Which, fair enough – he may be a sore loser, but he was not below admitting his enemy’s victory.

If only he could remember exactly  _ what _ that victory had looked like. How had Roche overpowered him? How had he fallen?

He didn’t know. He tried to draw on the memories, but they were just… empty. Nothing there.

The last thing he  _ could _ remember was preparing for an attack and observing the field before he ordered his men to move. It had long since become habit to scope out the area for his opposite before getting started. If Roche was nowhere to be found, then that was a sign that Iorveth had missed something and things were about to go tits up.

But this time… Roche  _ had _ been there this time. And he hadn’t been alone. Iorveth frowned, trying to recall more about the other person. He hadn’t seen them before, he was sure of it. Were they the reason he couldn’t remember anything?

Heavy boots thudded down the corridor towards Iorveth’s cell and he stiffly shifted to his feet. Whatever was coming, he refused to face it lying down. He was Iorveth of the Scoia’tael, one of the last true Aen Seidhe on the continent. He would not be broken, no matter how they tried.

There was a jangling of keys and then Iorveth’s cell door opened and that same stranger from before stood in the doorway. The man looked Iorveth over appraisingly, and then smirked, the coldest smirk Iorveth had ever seen.

For the first time, a trickle of fear slipped down his spine. This man looked at him and did not see another person, did not see a man. This person looked at Iorveth and saw an  _ elf,  _ one who didn’t  _ deserve  _ to live.

Iorveth grit his teeth. This was absolutely going to suck. But he would not break. He would  _ never _ break.

Just before the sudden, unrelenting pain became the only thing he could focus on, Iorveth had a passing thought that Roche had cheated. This wasn’t the way their enmity should have ended. One or the other of them falling in a protracted battle that drew on all of their reserves –  _ that _ should have been his end.

This? This just wasn’t fair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Iorveth is captured and Roche has mixed feelings about it.

Vernon Roche was considered to be very good at his job. Whether that job was hunting nonhumans, torturing captives, or bribing informants, Roche got it done without fail. 

With one exception: Iorveth. The one elf he’d never managed to defeat, the one elf that still terrorized Temeria.

That was why, when a mage came before the throne and convinced the King that he could deliver the most wanted elf in the north, Foltest had naturally hired him.

It wasn’t a statement on Roche’s failure. It was just good business. If the mage failed, he would die and they wouldn’t need to pay him. If he  _ succeeded,  _ then they would have Iorveth in their grasps and it would be money well spent.

Roche still didn’t like it. There was something  _ off _ about the mage. And it wasn’t just the magic – he was decently familiar with the way magic felt when the Court Mages Triss Merigold and Keira Metz cast spells. It felt odd, just a bit eerie – but that was only when the magic itself washed over you. The mages themselves just seemed like… well, like people. Particularly beautiful people, perhaps, but still just normal people.

Quinten of Troy did  _ not _ seem like a normal person. When Roche looked at the mage, the hairs on the back of his neck went straight up and all he could think was  _ threat. _

This feeling was not dissuaded by the way the mage had successfully captured the one elf to elude Roche.

The intel for the attack had come from Roche, but the credit for the entire capture went to Quinten. Because before the attack had even started, Roche watched Quinten swirl power between his hands and, as soon as Iorveth was magically located, the mage sent the power hurtling towards the elf.

There was no fight. Through his spyglass, Roche saw the way the magic hit Iorveth dead on, causing the elf to jerk upright and then collapse to the ground, crumpled in a heap. The Scoia’tael screamed on behalf of their leader and launched into battle, but it was no contest. Before Roche’s men could even engage them, the mage snarled something in a low voice and the elves were pushed back by a violent force. Several of them were killed on impact with trees or rocks and Roche  _ felt _ the moment everyone in the clearing realized that this mage was  _ not _ to be messed with. 

Showing more sense than he honestly would’ve expected, Iorveth’s second in command ordered a retreat and the elves faded into the forest, leaving their leader behind.

Iorveth had been captured. Just like that. 

It wasn’t right. Iorveth should have fallen at the end of Roche’s sword after a long battle of wits and skill. The victory should have been clear, absolute, irrevocable. Not this. Not like this.

Upon their return, Iorveth in chains and floating beside the mage, Quinten generously offered his services for the elf’s questioning.

It was only natural that King Foltest should say yes. And again, it wasn’t a reflection on Roche. It  _ wasn’t. _

Roche was a skilled interrogator. He knew how to work someone over, knew when to let them stew in their heads and when to beat them until they spoke. If it were up to him, he would leave Iorveth alone for a day, maybe two. Get him to the point he was antsy and fidgety, questioning whether or not he’d been forgotten. Questioning just how important he was.  _ Then  _ Roche would start the interrogation.

Quentin, it seemed, had other ideas. Which Roche only knew because the screams he could hear from the dungeons below could belong to no other. 

Roche was good at both interrogations and at torture. But there was a  _ difference.  _ For someone to scream like that, they were beyond answering you. Beyond even comprehending the question asked. 

_ Why?  _ Iorveth was a valuable prisoner. He could give them  _ so much _ information. Why would the mage go straight to torture?

But, Roche reminded himself, it wasn’t his place to question. King Foltest had chosen to enlist  _ Quentin  _ to tend to Iorveth. Not him. Not Roche.

After all, when Iorveth was finally captured, all Roche had been able to do was watch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth is certain he won't break under torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is literally torture. Non-graphic, mostly, as it's magical, but be warned.

Iorveth was used to pain. He’d lived a long life and been through a lot in that time. He’d taken a spear to the fucking eye and  _ survived.  _

Survival meant pain. Iorveth had learned that long, long ago. Pain was just a simple fact of life. If you were lucky, it could be ignored, only noticeable when other stimulation ceased. If you weren’t, then all your awareness became pain and agony and blankness, and time meant nothing until the pain stops.

Iorveth was confident he would never break under torture because he lived with pain every day of his life. He could take whatever Roche threw at him.

Except his “interrogator” wasn’t Roche. He didn’t know  _ who _ it was, because the man hadn’t bothered to introduce himself before tracing a symbol in the air and snarling something guttural.

Pain hit Iorveth with all the abruptness of a carriage crash. His skin prickled everywhere with the sharp kinds of tingles that reminded you that any sensation could become pain. It was all a matter of degree. 

Iorveth ground his teeth together, trapping his startled scream in his throat. The man – the  _ mage,  _ for only a mage could cause pain with a wave of his hand – didn’t even bother asking him questions.

This wasn’t an interrogation, Iorveth realized, ice creeping up his spine even as tears built in his eye. He hadn’t been captured as the leader of the Scoia’tael, a prisoner with valuable information.

No, Iorveth had been taken to be made an  _ example _ of.

He swallowed harshly and couldn’t hold back the soft groan as the prickling of a thousand needles across his skin increased in intensity. 

They didn’t care what information Iorveth had. They didn’t care what he might tell them. They just wanted to make him scream until he broke, scream until all of Temeria knew the price to be paid for fighting for nonhumans.

_ Roche cheated,  _ Iorveth thought with the small amount of his mind that wasn’t overrun by pain. That amount was growing sparser and sparser and with some desperation, he grasped for his anger, his fury, his  _ betrayal _ that Roche had changed the rules of engagement between them without warning. The fiery ball of rage fought the sucking black hole of pain and Iorveth clutched at his head as his awareness of the world around him slowly faded away.

All that was left was outrage and agony.

Through the blankness and overwhelmingness of it, Iorveth slowly became aware of  _ something _ reaching into his head, his thoughts, trying to tease out information.

_ He stepped into the Scoia’tael’s war room, looking around into the faces of his generals. They stood around a map of the Pontar Valley, even though Iorveth’s forest was located at the very tip of the valley. Figures representing Scoia’tael units were scattered across the map, and Iorveth knew that he would have to find a way to unite them all if they were going to be able to come to the aid of–  _

No. No, he wasn’t in the war room at all, he was in a clearing across from Roche, both their swords at the ready. Anger boiled in his stomach and he charged forward, thirsting for Roche’s blood.

The strength of the betrayal he had no real right to feel surprised him. Roche was his enemy, but moreover, Roche was a  _ human _ . He should have  _ expected _ that Roche would be dishonorable and change the rules of engagement on him.

Humans always changed the rules when they didn’t get what they wanted. Iorveth had learned that long, long ago.

_ The sight of smoke in the distance had been an ill omen from the moment Iorveth had spotted it. It was in the direction of home, and even though it could be any number of things, fear gripped his heart and he spurred his horse into a gallop. He needed to get home as soon as possible. _

_ As he grew closer and closer to Loc Muinne, Iorveth knew for certain that the smoke was coming from home. And there was  _ so much _ of it! He knew what it meant, even though he refused to think it. He knew that with that much smoke, nothing could have possibly survived. _

_ Hoofs clattered on stone as Iorveth approached the bridge leading into the city – and then he had to pull his mount to a stop before he could collide with the row of soldiers blocking the way.  _

_ “No passage,” one of the guards hollered, holding his spear at the ready. “This city has been cleansed by order of Radovid V of Redania.” _

_ Cleansed, they said. Iorveth swallowed hard, suddenly grateful that his travel cloak covered his ears. If they had  _ cleansed _ an elven city, then there would only be one thing they would want with Iorveth. _

_ He turned his horse away from the soldiers, retreating back up the path until the soldiers were out of sight. Then he turned to the smoking ruins of his home and thought of everyone who he’d seen not days ago, everyone who was now dead. _

An irritated growl from the mage abruptly brought Iorveth out of his memories and he gasped desperately for air, feeling as if the clouds of smoke hovered just above them, suffocating him slowly.

“Show me something  _ useful,  _ you damned elf,” the mage snarled and before Iorveth could finish catching his breath, he was overrun again.

_ “Kaedwen has been poking at the Aedirnian border, testing to see the response,” his top general, Maeral, reported. “We’ve been trying to get intel on the size of Kaedwen’s forces, but most of our spies have been caught by King Henselt and his mages.” _

Before Iorveth’s eyes, Maeral melted into Roche, the Vernon Roche he’d first met four years ago, after a surprise attack had caught him off guard and an entire unit had paid for it with their lives.

_ “Iorveth,” Roche had greeted over his sword, and Iorveth was vaguely impressed that the man had managed to find his name. None of the other special forces commanders that had come for the Scoia’tael had managed. Iorveth had killed them all. _

_ Roche, damn him, refused to die.  _

_ “What have you learned, then?” Iorveth asked, genuinely curious. _

_ “I admit,” Roche said, “there’s not a lot about you from before the Second Nilfgaardian War and the formation of the Vrihedd Brigade–” _

Suddenly Iorveth was there, there at the end of the Vrihedd Brigade, there in the Pass of the Hydra where humans had changed the rules of engagement again and Nilfgaard had bought a treaty with the lives of Iorveth’s compatriots.

_ “Run!” Isengrim rasped, staggering into a tree as blood dripped down his face. “We’ve been betrayed. The others are dead. We must flee!” _

_ Iorveth wrapped his arms carefully around his commander, hauling him against his side. “What happened?” _

_ “The Nilfgaardians sold us out. Apparently our deaths were a mandatory part of the Treaty of Cintra,” Isengrim snarled and then took a ragged breath and choked on blood. _

_ Iorveth bent him over, pressing a bandage against Isengrim’s face to staunch the blood. “How did you escape?” _

_ Isengrim shook his head, and Iorveth noticed that he was trembling finely. “I didn’t think I would. I wasn’t the only one to survive the fall, but the  _ waiting,” _ he looked seconds away from being sick, and Iorveth swallowed down the rest of his questions. Whatever had happened, he could find out the details later, if Isengrim could ever speak of it. But now, now the important thing was that they had been  _ betrayed. Again.

The mage twisted his wrist and the pain dissipated, Iorveth suddenly  _ aware _ again. He was lying flat on his back in the dungeons of Vizima, throat raw from screaming, and the mage stood over him, trying to pry inside his mind.

Apparently he had valuable information in their eyes, after all. But to go about it this way – he’d expected more of Roche. How foolish of him.

“Enjoying your little breather?” the mage growled. “Then give me something  _ good.” _

  
Immediately, the pain was back, made all the worse for the brief reprieve and Iorveth couldn’t think beyond  _ pain, pain, pain.  _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche is recruited to help break Iorveth. He has mixed feelings about this.

“Vernon,” King Foltest summoned him. “Come, Quentin was about to tell me what he’s learned from our new guest.”

Foltest wrapped his arm around Roche’s shoulder and herded him over to where Quentin of Troy was seated in the King’s receiving room. Roche raised an eyebrow, curious despite himself. Had Quentin actually learned something? Even though he’d gone straight to torturing Iorveth, rather than interrogating him? How?

“It’s a simple matter,” Quentin answered his unasked question, “to delve through the mind. People resist, of course, but I’ve found that at a certain point, pain will simply,” he fluttered his hand around casually, “overwhelm such resistance.”

Roche felt cold. There was something  _ wrong _ with this mage, and Roche did not like the fact that he was anywhere near King Foltest  _ or _ Iorveth. 

“And you’ve,” Roche said slowly, “‘overwhelmed’ Iorveth’s resistance?”

To his surprise, Quentin’s demeanor darkened and he shivered as the mage’s cool regard settled on him. “Not entirely,” Quentin admitted, “but it’s only a matter of time.”

“So far,” Foltest boasted, “Quentin has managed to see the faces of all of the elf’s top commanders. Won’t that make your job easier.” The smile he turned on Roche was pleased on the surface, but Roche could sense the hard edge underneath. Roche shouldn’t  _ need _ help to do his job.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” Quentin straightened his shoulders. “The elf has been planning something big. Something involving uniting all the Scoia’tael in the north.”

Foltest turned a grim look on Roche. “Is that possible?”

“They’d need something to rally behind,” he answered, “but if any unit leader could do it, it would be Iorveth.”

“No matter,” Foltest dismissed, “now that he rots in our dungeon, it shall only be a matter of time before we eliminate the remaining elves. What else did you find about this plan?”

“It has something to do with the Pontar Valley. He was interested in Kaedweni intrusions at the Aedirnian border,” Quentin reported. “Unfortunately, he has proved resistant. Actually,” that calculating gaze landed on Roche again and he tried not to shiver, “I would like to request Commander Roche’s assistance.”

“Oh?”

“You see, the elf appears to be using his anger at Commander Roche to resist. Every time I touch upon a useful memory, it morphs into a confrontation with you, before devolving into nightmares. I’d like to  _ use _ this anger. If, of course, I might have your assistance.”

“I order it,” Foltest responded easily. “Vernon, you are to do anything and everything Quentin requires to get to the bottom of this plot. Using this, we will root out the rest of the elves and finally be done with all these ploughing nonhumans.”

Roche forced his lips into an obedient smile. “Of course, sire,” he bowed stiffly, unsure what precisely was so uncomfortable about this conversation, but certain that  _ something _ was.

“Wonderful,” Quentin clapped, “let’s get to it then!”

He followed Quentin down to the dungeons and steeled himself before he stepped into Iorveth’s cell.

Even so, the sight shocked the breath from his lungs. The usually proud elf was curled up against the wall, and though his face was a mask of determination, Iorveth couldn’t hide his flinch at the sight of Quentin.

Then his gaze turned to Roche and Roche had to stop himself from flinching at the sheer outrage there. 

_ This isn’t my fault!  _ he almost wanted to say,  _ I didn’t ask for the mage to come! _

But it didn’t matter whose fault it was. Iorveth had been captured, and now it was Roche’s job to help Quentin break him.

Something sour curdled in his stomach and Roche swallowed hard.

“Shall we begin?” Quentin said merrily, then waved his fingers and Iorveth was collapsing forward with a strangled scream. Roche gasped, and a moment later, Quentin’s hand touched his shoulder and he was  _ somewhere else. _

_ When he blinked open his eyes, he was standing in the middle of a forest, facing a sandy blonde-haired woman with delicate features and eyes that burned like embers. _

_ “We need someone like you,” he said. _

Only it wasn’t him at all, it was Iorveth, he was seeing things from Iorveth’s point of view. With what awareness he had, Roche focused on memorizing this woman’s face. Whoever she was, she was obviously important.

_ “Iorveth,” the woman protested. _

_ “You know it’s true,” he – or rather, Iorveth – waved his hand dismissively. “But to rally the people, you’re going to need a legend.” _

_ “I take it you have something in mind?” The woman’s smile was mischievous and he found himself smiling back automatically. _

_ “I think I’ve got just the thing,” he smirked. _

As the woman’s smile grew, her features slowly morphed until he found himself standing face to face with Vernon Roche. 

_ “You always come up with something,” the Roche in Iorveth’s mind taunted with a grin. “And I will always cut through it.” _

_ So saying, not-Roche raised his sword and charged at him. _

“You see?” Quentin said, pure frustration in his tone, and instead of the weird mirror image of himself, Roche could suddenly see the dungeon again. Iorveth was cowering under Quentin’s upraised hand, low groans escaping him.

Roche looked from Iorveth to Quentin and back again, mind racing to catch up to the moment. “Wha–?”

“Every time I think he’s about to show something  _ useful,  _ it turns into  _ you _ instead, Quentin grumbled. “It’s annoying. But with you here I believe I can fix it.”

“Oh?” Roche began to ask, but Quentin had already turned away, waving his hand over Iorveth again.

From the way Iorveth gasped for breath in great big gulps, Roche suspected that the pain had ceased. For the moment.

“Now,  _ elf,”  _ Quentin snarled, using magic to force Iorveth’s head up until he was looking at Roche. “I believe you’re acquainted with Commander Roche, yes?” Quentin’s smile was a little too wide, clearly enjoying this.

Roche opened his mouth to do something, though he wasn’t sure what, when Quentin slashed his hand down in front of Iorveth’s face, saying something in a language Roche couldn’t understand.

“There,” Quentin said, satisfied.

“What did you do?” Roche asked, and as he watched, the outrage and fury in Iorveth’s eye as he looked at Roche faded away, until there was no hint of recognition at all.

“Made him forget,” Quentin chuckled. “Now, let’s see what we can find.” He muttered another word in that other language and suddenly, Iorveth was screaming, screaming as if he were on fire, in unbelievable agony, the sound ripped from his vocal cords.

Roche flinched back, but Quentin just smiled.

“Shall we?” Quentin reached out to touch Roche’s shoulder again – and without really thinking about what he was doing, Roche dodged around Quentin’s grasp, pulled a knife, slapped a hand over his mouth, and slit his throat.

As Quentin attempted a strangled gasp, the screaming abruptly ceased, though the silence rang in Roche’s ears for a long, long moment. He was quite sure it was a sound he would never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who got a new chapter notification for ch 5: I’m so sorry, I messed up and reposted the last chapter. Turns out, you should not try to post from your phone while in pre-op. Sorry y’all. But next chapter is almost finished!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain stops and the mage is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change! Yeah, this chapter has porn. Think of it as my apology for any of you who got excited at the new chapter notification when I accidentally uploaded a copy of Ch 3. Sorry about that!

Iorveth had come to mistrust the cessation of pain. It wasn’t truly a break, but a taunt, a way to make sure that he continued to feel as much agony as possible without letting him just adjust to the pain. 

But unlike before, the mage was silent as Iorveth panted for breath, awareness slowly returning to him. Slowly, shakily, Iorveth raised his head to see a man standing over the standing over the body of the mage who hurt him, the mage who was now bleeding out rapidly. 

Iorveth blinked. Was he hallucinating? 

The man holding the bloody knife shook himself, then bent down and searched the mage’s pockets. Iorveth watched warily, waiting to see what this new interrogator would do.

When the answer was apparently ‘hurry towards Iorveth’, Iorveth, much to his shame, flinched, waiting for the pain.

“Fuck,” the man swore. “I – I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?” He held his hands up placatingly showing the key that he had taken from the mage. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?”

“Why?”

There was a pained expression on the man’s face. “It – it’s not right, what he was doing. I – I don’t want this to be the way I win.”

Iorveth tilted his head. “Win?”

This time, it was the human who flinched. “I – he’s dead. His spell should have died with him. But you – you don’t know who I am, do you?”

Iorveth stared into warm brown eyes that looked so very _hurt_ at the idea that Iorveth might’ve forgotten him and Iorveth inexplicably felt _guilty._

“Right,” the man swallowed, “uh, well, for the record, I’m Vernon Roche.”

The name hit Iorveth like a brick to the head and he gasped roughly as his memory slotted back into place. Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes. Vernon Roche, Temerian Loyalist. Vernon Roche, Elf Hater.

Vernon Roche, Thrilling Challenge. Vernon Roche, Worthy Foe.

Vernon Roche, Cheater who had changed the rules of engagement on him. 

Vernon Roche, Rescuer.

Iorveth stared at the mage’s body, utterly stunned. “Why would you turn on your own guy?”

“He is _not_ my ally,” Roche shook his head. “He’s – he’s _not._ The King will understand,” he said uncertainly.

Iorveth snorted. “If you don’t think your king knew _exactly_ what was happening down here, then you’re delusional. Why did you do it, Roche?”

“He – there was something _wrong_ with him,” Roche was shaking, Iorveth noticed. Trembling, with his breath coming too fast and his eyes dilated – all symptoms of shock. Not terribly surprising, as Roche had apparently just killed his king’s pet mage, but also extremely inconvenient, given that at some point, guards would return to investigate _why_ Iorveth wasn’t screaming in agony anymore. Which meant he had a _very_ limited time window in which to escape and if Roche really meant to help him–

“Vernon,” he snapped sharply. Roche’s head jerked as eyes darted to meet his. “Vernon, we need to get out of here. You need to unshackle me.”

Roche took a step towards him and then froze. “No,” Roche shook his head and Iorveth felt his stomach sinking, “no, the guards are going to expect shackles. I – I’ll take you out, as my prisoner. They won’t – they shouldn’t question that.”

Iorveth stared. “And what then?” he asked. “When you have your prisoner alone with no witnesses?”

Roche licked his lips, “then… then we get to the stables. And – and once you’re gone, I’ll explain to the King–”

Iorveth grimaced, biting back his response. Right now, he needed Roche focused on freeing him and not on the consequences of doing so.

“We have to hurry,” he cut Roche off. “The guards–”

“Right.” Roche cleared his throat, tucking the key to Iorveth’s manacles in his pocket. “Can you walk?”

Iorveth nodded, standing. 

Roche grabbed his knife where he’d dropped it, wiping off the blood and then stepping up behind Iorveth to hold it to his back. Iorveth had to grit his teeth to hold back the shiver that sent down his spine and he wondered how long Roche’s assistance would last. He had to find a way to get that key before Roche changed his mind. 

Roche opened the door and then hesitated. “I – they’ll expect – so that you don’t run away–”

Iorveth stiffened as Roche pulled a rope from his belt and looped it around Iorveth’s neck, tying a noose. Iorveth swallowed, feeling the press of the rope against his throat and trying not to panic. This was not at all how he’d thought he would go.

Was Roche helping him or hunting him? He honestly didn’t know.

Roche took the end of the rope and grabbed his shoulder, directing him forward with the press of the knife at his back. “Stay quiet,” Roche murmured and Iorveth immediately wanted to shout. He bit his tongue against it. For the moment, he was at Roche’s mercy. For now, his only option was to trust in Roche’s words. Time would tell what sort of end that would bring him.

With his hands shackled in front of him, joined with a chain to the shackles on his ankles, walking was awkward. Iorveth was forced to focus on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping, and he let Roche guide him, barely paying attention to where they went.

When they reached the exit of the dungeon, two guards stood in front of the barred door, rolling dice with each other. Roche scoffed then barked, “atten-tion!” 

Iorveth wished he could shoot Roche a disbelieving stare because _what the fuck?_

The two guards immediately jumped to attention as the dice fell to the table, “sir!”

“Open the door, Sergeant,” Roche ordered. “I’m taking the prisoner out of the city.”

“Ooooh,” one of the guards bounced his eyebrows, looking over Iorveth with a leer. “Yes, sir,” he saluted, unbolting the door and waving them out. “Have a good time, sir,” he jeered and Iorveth went cold.

Was this something Roche had done before? What was taking the prisoner out of the city code for? Were the guards expecting Roche to ‘have his fun’ before executing him?

Roche pushed him forward, through the door that clanged shut behind them. The dungeons opened into an empty courtyard, and with the guards now out of sight, Roche leapt away from him as if burnt. He still held the end of the rope in his hand, but he sheathed his knife, holding his free hand up placatingly again. 

“We need to get to the stables, we’ll never make it on foot,” Roche murmured, tilting his head in the direction of the stables.

Iorveth nodded stiffly, shuffling forward again. Roche kept pace beside him, holding the end of the rope tightly and leading the way. 

When they walked into the royal stables, several stablehands jumped up and tried to pretend they hadn’t been lounging against haybales passing around a flask. Roche sighed again and squeezed the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding Iorveth’s rope. 

“Prepare my horse, quickly!” 

The servants shot nervous glances at Iorveth, but jumped into action, quickly kitting up Roche’s horse. As in, the horse that apparently belonged to Roche and was housed in the royal stables. Iorveth felt some sort of way about that.

Finally, Roche tugged him forward by the rope around his neck, tugged him _close,_ and then Roche was murmuring, “sorry,” and bodily picking him up to throw him over the rear of the horse. 

Iorveth snarled in outrage and the stablehands cowered back, but Roche just mounted his horse and fisted a hand in the back of Iorveth’s tunic. “Let’s not fall off now, hmm?”

There were tentative chuckles from the servants and Iorveth snarled again, wondering once more whether he was being led to his death or not. 

Roche’s horse trotted across the stone courtyard and headed towards the gates out of the city. Or so Iorveth assumed. He couldn’t see much beyond the dizzying cobblestone as they moved by. He was wildly uncomfortable – with his wrists and ankles still chained together, he was stuck laying on his arms, facedown over the horse’s ass. He shifted, trying to regain sensation in his left hand.

Roche tightened his hand, the one fisted in his tunic, which was also the one holding the rope, and it pulled tighter around his throat as he moved. 

“Iorveth!” Roche hissed.

Iorveth swallowed against the press of the rope and shifted again, his right elbow digging into his stomach. 

“Gods, dammit,” Roche growled, and then the hand on his back released his armor, moving down to give a sharp swat to his ass, tugging on the rope at the same time. “Stop squirming!”

Iorveth hissed in a startled breath, heat suddenly pounding through his veins, and he froze.

What the fuck? Was he really reacting like this to Roche’s treatment in what very well may be his last moments of life?

“Halt!” A guard called and Iorveth twisted his head around to see that they’d arrived at one of the city’s gates. “Who goes there?”

“Vernon Roche, on business from the King,” Roche said, voice steady and calm. No trace of a lie.

Was it one?

“Let him through,” the guard called to his compatriots. “Good luck with your prisoner, sir,” he said with a smirk and again, Iorveth felt cold. How often had Roche _done_ this? Was this how they got rid of the undesirable prisoners?

Or did they just have fun with them first?

That was a bad direction for his mind to go, because instead of the horror he should feel, the idea of Roche having his way with him had his breath coming fast, warmth pooling in his belly. 

Gods, what was wrong with him? 

Iorveth shifted again, his thighs sliding together and sending shivers up his spine. 

Roche nudged the horse forward, and when Iorveth slipped the slightest bit, Roche’s hand flexed around his armor and the rope again, pulling it the tiniest bit tighter.

Iorveth’s breath was coming short and his pulse was racing and he could almost imagine what that hand would feel like wrapped around his throat. The rope pressed tightly enough to be noticed, to press against his windpipe as he swallowed again and Iorveth found himself wanting it to be pulled tighter.

The horse slowed to a stop and when Iorveth blinked, he realized it was no longer paved stone under his nose, but the grass and undergrowth of a forest. Iorveth shifted, shuddering as his thighs clenched together again. 

Roche made an aggrieved noise. “Okay, hold on, let me free you–” Iorveth squirmed, feeling himself start to slide down the horse’s back and Roche twisted around, smacking his ass in punishment once more.

The movement tugged the rope tighter and Iorveth made a small sound as his eye rolled back in his head and his body convulsed in orgasm.

He was vaguely aware of Roche rolling him over and hauling him off the horse, then propping him against a tree.

“Iorveth?” Roche asked, and there was a clear note of concern in his voice, but underneath, there was something darker, something Iorveth wanted to see.

“What?” he mumbled.

“You – you just–”

“Mmmm,” Iorveth hummed, lassitude weighing his body down. He flicked his gaze over Roche and suddenly realized what that something darker was.

Roche was hard. Iorveth’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

  
  


Roche held out his hands nervously, the key to Iorveth’s shackles pinned against one palm. Then he made a show of placing the key on the ground and stepping back, hands still upraised.

Iorveth stared at the key. Roche really was freeing him. Roche was betraying Temeria. For _him._

Iorveth licked his lips again, then looked up to meet Roche’s eyes. Holding Roche’s gaze, Iorveth dropped to his knees, legs spread to display the wet patch on his trousers. His chains clinked as he dropped and Iorveth shuddered, staring at Roche.

Roche gasped, breath shaky and loud. “Iorveth–”

Iorveth grasped the end of the rope that Roche had dropped and held it out to him. Hand shaking, Roche stepped forward to take it, the look on his face uncomfortably close to awe. 

Iorveth shuffled the slightest bit forward on his knees until he could tip forward and press his face against Roche’s crotch, the rope tugging tighter with his movement.

He’d never lain with a human before, but they were so overly proud of their phalluses that not a single species could claim ignorance of the human penis. 

Knowing was different from experiencing it, though. No human boast could prepare him for how hot Roche was, even through the fabric of his trousers. Iorveth opened his mouth against him, and Roche moaned roughly.

“Iorveth!” he whispered, voice still largely awestruck. But he seemed to be on board with where this was going, scrabbling at his belt. He exposed his cock with shaky hands, breath coming quick. 

More eager than he’d expected to be, Iorveth wrapped his lips the tip of Roche’s cock and sank down, closing his eyes to savour the moment. It was not until now that he realized how much he’d hungered for this, how much of the tension in his belly when facing Roche had been a desire for _this,_ for being overwhelmed by Roche and his scent and his taste and his sounds, low groans that shivered down Iorveth’s spine.

Iorveth let out a soft noise when Roche touched his face with trembling fingers, brushing the backs of them lightly over his cheek. He leaned into the touch with a sigh and shuffled back on his knees, far enough back that, with his hands bound, the only thing stopping him from planting face first into the ground was Roche.

Roche gasped, the hand with the rope scrabbling at his bandana until the human was sinking wide, blunt fingers into his hair, the rope tugging tighter all the while.

Iorveth moaned wildly around his mouthful. With the rope wrapped tightly around his neck and the cock in his throat, he was thoroughly and completely at Roche’s mercy to breathe. He shuddered, enjoying the way Roche carded through his hair. Gravity pushed him down as far as possible on Roche’s cock, until the head pushed against the back of his throat, cutting off his air. Combined with the rope constricting blood flow to his brain, Iorveth quickly felt himself growing hazy, dizzy with lacy of air and shivering as pleasure lanced down his spine.

Roche’s hand fisted in his hair, pulling him back and loosening the rope at the same time. The sudden influx of air had his whole body twitching as relief fizzled hot in his blood. Then, Roche lowered him down again and the cock pushing into his open mouth felt like something sliding home, completing some part of him that had been missing for so long he’d forgotten anything else.

Who’d have ever thought that Vernon fucking Roche would make him feel this way?

Perhaps it meant that there was some part of him that was broken, feeling like this about his enemy – but Roche _wasn’t_ truly his enemy anymore, was he? Roche had _saved_ him, had rescued him and freed him, and it was such an utter _relief_ to have someone live up to their word.

“Iorveth,” Roche whimpered, and even though the human had all the control at the moment, he spoke Iorveth’s name like a prayer, like he was asking benediction from a deity. 

Iorveth moaned, swallowing around Roche. Roche bucked up against him with a gasp, and then finally, Roche used his grip on Iorveth’s hair to pull him down as Roche rocked up, fucking his face properly. He lost himself in the steady pounding of Roche’s cock, the slight ache in the back of his throat, the blurring edges of his awareness as Roche slowly pulled the rope tighter again. 

He floated, luxuriating in the fact that, for the first time in what felt like decades, it was somebody _else’s_ job to think and plan and protect. Instead, Iorveth felt light, limbs warm and heavy as Roche moved his head where he wanted it.

The sounds Roche was making were melodious, and the symphony of his cries anchored Iorveth. Choruses of deep grunts and lustful moans drove Iorveth’s pleasure towards an inevitable crescendo, and every whimper he made was answered with a harmony of mindless keens. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Roche pulled him back, back far enough to lose his mouthful, though his mouth gaped open with the memory of it. Iorveth’s eyes fluttered open to see Roche stroke his cock once, twice, and then the human was coming in thick stripes over Iorveth’s face.

Iorveth shuddered, flicking his tongue out for a taste of the hot cum that marked him as _Roche’s._

“Fuck,” Roche swore, holding Iorveth up by the hair even as he stumbled down onto his own knees and dragged Iorveth forward to kiss him.

Iorveth moaned, opening to the teasing flicks of Roche’s tongue easily, and Roche wrapped an arm around him, pushing him back against the tree. Iorveth let Roche move him easily, his muscles liquified from pleasure, and he sighed in contentment as Roche pulled away from his mouth and licked up the mess on Iorveth’s face, feeding tastes to Iorveth as he went.

Iorveth closed his eyes, enjoying the focus of Roche’s attention.

When he next opened them, Roche was no longer kissing him, but instead, he’d unshackled Iorveth’s hands and feet and was slowly rubbing arnica cream into his wrists.

“Vernon,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

Roche looked up to meet his gaze and the man looked surprisingly sweet with his cheeks dusted with red. Roche opened his mouth to say something, when a sudden blaring alarm from the city caused them both to jump.

“Your escape has been discovered,” Roche said, fingers suddenly going nerveless against Iorveth’s wrist. “You have to run.”

Iorveth twisted his hand to clasp Roche’s. _“We_ need to run.”

Roche shook his head and Iorveth already knew he was going to have to fight for this. But dammit, Roche had saved him, and Iorveth couldn’t repay that by letting the idiot go back to Vizima to get killed.

  
Roche had _helped him escape._ Even if Roche wasn’t ready to face what that fully meant, Iorveth knew. He knew which side Roche had chosen.


End file.
